Crack
by Solaris Day
Summary: The Boy-Who-Lived's descent into the abyss of drug addiction, and his journey back out, again. AU Post-Hogwarts
1. Track Marks

**Chapter One**

**Track Marks**

Track Marks: The line of bruised needle holes in the arm of a junky produced as he shoots up at a slightly higher point on his arm each time.

—_Urban Dictionary_

He'd been lying in bed the first time it happened. His heart began to race, his palms grew wet, and a sudden and intense wave of nausea swept over him, for no discernable reason.

His Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape had been an abysmal failure, to be sure, but he'd guarded his mind, as best he could, so as not to leave it open and vulnerable to attack. It was, then, not unreasonable for him to assume, as he breathed heavily and deliberately through his nose, that Voldemort had broken his admittedly weak mental shields. He realized, though, as the churning in his stomach lessened somewhat, that the feelings were not accompanied by the burning sensation in his scar that he associated with Voldemort's presence—corporeal or not.

Moments later, a tightening band around his chest constricted his breathing and he wondered, as he lay gasping on his tattered bedcovers, if he was dying. Had the Death Eaters utilized a spell that could hit its target from incredibly long distances, he wondered, or were they, even as he lay immobilized, outside the Privet Drive house, plotting and preparing to capture and steal him away to their Dark Lord's headquarters?

That thought, more than any other, compelled him to move from his bed to the window in a flash. He peered through the blinds, scanning the lawn and surrounding neighborhood for any movement or unusual shadow. A half moon shone brightly in the clear, night sky, aiding his impromptu reconnaissance, to which he was suitably able to determine there were no persons with dark intentions lingering outside.

He paused; unless, of course, they were scaling an attack on the other side of the house. His hand tightened around his wand. He was uncertain as to how he came to be holding it, but he was more conscious of the knife-edge of fear that threatened to blot out all awareness.

He struggled to direct his shaking legs out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He crept quietly across the floor, once his feet touched the bottom. He moved stealthily into the kitchen—the only room, on the bottom floor, that had a full view of the backyard—and peered cautiously through the curtained windows in the kitchen, whereupon he determined that none of Lord Voldemort's minions were outside.

Now that the sharp rush of adrenaline had subsided, Harry was left, shaken, with lingering feelings of muted dread. He breathed slowly and deliberately trying to slow his racing heart and make the fine tremors running down his body, subside. Harry withdrew a chair from the kitchen table, sat down, and did not move for a very long time.

The same strange and inexplicable attack happened two days later, and once more before the summer holidays were over. Each time, he waited anxiously for lurking Death Eaters to unveil themselves—even though the last attack had occurred in the relative safety of Grimmauld's Place—as he rode the waves of certain anxiety and doom.

Over time, it became evident that he was not being attacked from outside forces, but from within. He told no one about the strange occurrences, ashamed of his apparent weakness; certain that he'd finally cracked under the strain of being the Boy-Who-Lived and all it entailed.

But he was found out when the first attack to happen in broad daylight, occurred in the middle of Professor McGonagall's Transfigurations lessons. He hadn't any choice but to allow himself to be escorted to the infirmary as there really _was_ no good reason why a perfectly healthy teenage boy dropped like a stone to the floor, gasping for air like a landed trout.

Harry was non-communicative about his condition, and his answers were deliberately misleading, when he was subsequently questioned by Madam Pomfrey about his episode, as he'd begun calling them. She was unable to come to a conclusive diagnosis, and she had him stay in the infirmary, overnight, dosing him with liberal amounts of the Pepper-Up Potion, although it had nothing at all to do with a cold.

Harry took up drinking with the fellows later that year, in the privacy of the Sixth Years boy's room. They were eager to enter the ranks of manhood, and they all thought—even little Neville Longbottom—that imbibing Fire Whiskey, and other illicit, intoxicants would allow them to join their worldlier brethren, more quickly. They were the very specter of dissipated youth.

And much to Hermione's disapproval, Harry was soon introduced to the wonderful world of narcotics—marijuana, of course—and its much more innocuous counterpart—cigarettes, via Dean Thomas.

Harry enjoyed the camaraderie he experienced with his year mates. It was a far cry from the previous year's doom and gloom. Some of his more keen friends, though, couldn't help but notice that he enjoyed being in his cups overmuch. They questioned him about it, and he increasingly began to indulge in drink and smoke, apart from his friendly get-togethers, alone.

Besides, he reasoned to himself, when he occasioned to examine his actions too closely, if he was to die—and it was almost a certain thing—before his seventeenth birthday at Voldemort's wand, he ought to enjoy the time he had left.

And he couldn't help but think his company was improved, both to himself and others, when he'd indulged, a little.

* * *

The boy—almost a man—is pressing her into the mattress with great urgency. His cock drives, relentlessly, into her body and her hips snap helplessly up to meet his.

The force of her pleasure drive sharp cries up from the core of her body, and out the back of her throat. His mouth is pressed against the underside of her jaw and gusts of great, panting breaths brush her neck as he grunts his pleasure into her ear.

Her arms are stretched above her head, her hands gripping the rails of her wrought-iron head board, tightly, for maximum leverage, and she watches him suspended over her, his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of her body while his arms tremble and strain to support his weight.

Heat pools, low in her belly, at the sight of his body—his back glistening with sweat—planted firmly between her splayed legs. Her feet are braced in the small of his back.

His need is raw and desperate and obvious. The force of his thrusts is driving her up the bed with each frantic push.

Her cries ratchet up a notch. "Harry." His name is a fractured sound, as she moans his name with a strained voice, sounding as if she is being tortured or fucked within an inch of her life.

He is pounding harder into her, now, his urgency obliterating any rhythm in his movement, and she can only cling to him, cries growing more frantic, as she relishes the sensations quickening through her body.

One, two, three strokes and she comes, the heat in her loins coalescing into a single point, before it spreads, in a rush, to all her joints and muscles and nerve endings. Her body sags, limply, into the bed under him as his body stiffens over hers, and he utters a harsh, guttural cry into her neck, as he, too, comes. Heat suffuses her as his seed expels, violently, into her body.

He lays sprawled and heavy on top of her. Then he raises his head off her heaving chest, still breathing heavily. His eyes glitter at her in the dark, and he declares, his voice rough and hoarse from sex, "Merlin! That was a good fuck."

He rolls, summarily, off her body with a low groan, and she feels him sliding, wetly, from her body. He lands on his front, slumping next to her, against the rumpled sheets; he closes his eyes. She is nearly offended, but she feels much too sated to allow his boorishness to raise her ire.

After a short while, she rouses herself, and sits up, drawing the sheets over her breasts. She reaches over the side of the bed to the night stand, and fumbling briefly, withdraws a post-coital cigarette from its pack. She touches her wand to the tip, mutters a spell, and lights it. She congratulates herself when this did not result in a small conflagration, as it nearly had the last time.

She inhales deeply, and turns back, looking down at the boy—man—lying beside her. She exhales and a puff of gray smoke filters through her nose. "So, you want to tell me what brought that on?" she asks, bright eyebrows lifted. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

He mumbles incoherently into the bed covers, not moving an inch.

She looks at him, studying his features. His face is flushed attractively. His dark, tousled hair sticks damply to his forehead; some strands cling, wet and curling, to the back of his neck. He needs a haircut, she muses, briefly. Then she runs her eyes over his body which is young and fit and trim.

Her lips curl at the edges of her mouth, smirking, as she considers him as he'd been then, a little over three years ago, the Boy-Who-Lived, sharp angles and coltish limbs. He'd been her summer shag. She'd been his first sexual experience.

He'd been the typical teenage boy, of course; short on foreplay and quick on ejaculation. But he'd also been a willing and eager student, employing himself to the task of lovemaking with an intensity he usually reserved for Quidditch.

And he really is quite good in bed, considerate and inventive by turns. She gives herself a small mental pat on the back. She hadn't taught him _all_ he knew, but she believes she'd gotten him off to a ripping good start.

He is always an enthusiastic and lusty bed partner, employing all his working body parts with skill and dedication. She really is quite fortunate, she tells herself.

She smiles fondly down at him, and lifts her hand, running contemplative fingers through his hair. He makes an annoyed, sleepy sound, and she pulls her hand back, leaning over to stub out her cigarette. She slides down, pulling the duvet over them, both. She reaches over, pressing a kiss to a muscled shoulder, sighs, and falls asleep.

* * *

She opens her eyes the next morning to the half shadows formed by the light of morning sunlight streaming around the edges of her curtains. She then takes note of her arrangement. Sometime during the night she and Harry had shifted and changed positions. His arm is slung over her hip, and she is facing him, her head tucked under his chin. It is an intimacy they rarely share in the bright light of day.

She mentally shakes off the quick stab of regret this thought engenders, and she slips gently from under his arm, so as not to wake him. She decides she will enjoy a hot shower in the facilities that are available in the Ministry's Auror Division. She mutters a quick cleansing charm, selecting some clean clothes and puts them on; a pair of well worn trousers, for comfort, and a cool, short-sleeved, green shirt—a nod to the summer's warmth. She convinces herself that she is not fleeing, merely utilizing avoidance techniques.

She further convinces herself that there is a difference between the two.

This morning she feels strangely without armor, and ill-prepared to meet his apathy and cynicism with her usual wit and good humor.

She looks in the mirror and for moment she is horrified, until she remembers she is a witch. She utilizes her Metamorphmagus skills and grows her disarrayed, close cropped, bright red hair into azure colored, shoulder length ringlets, which she secures into a high ponytail with an antique, heavily-brocaded barrette.

She locates one boot, evidently flung there during last night's wild bout of bedtime high-jinks, in one corner of the bedroom, and spies the other peeking out from under the ruffled, white eyelet bed skirt. As she tiptoes over to retrieve it, she stumbles over the braided edge of the bright red rug whose design is inspired by 1930s Art Deco Expressionism. Though the noise is slight, she freezes, hoping that he will not waken, but he only mumbles, shifts, and settles onto his back with a sigh.

She is about to heave a sigh of relief when she notices an odd pattern of marks on his out-flung arm. They are five tiny puncture holes with starbursts of broken blood vessels around them.

A yawning pit forms in her stomach and her heart begins beating, rapidly. There are, she knows, witches and wizards that abuse various potent and habit-forming potions, like Lethe and Hemlock, but she is well acquainted with the knowledge that quite a few of them resort to Muggle methods. She knows what the seemingly innocuous pin-prick marks mean.

This is not her first inclination that Harry uses drugs, but it is her first confrontation with hard physical evidence. She can no longer deny what she has suspected for some time.

She shakes her head, frenetically, stifling a hysterical giggle, with great difficulty.

She takes a deep breath, preparing to flee when she hears a muffled moan and his voice, sleep roughened and confused. "Dora?"

She has to clear her throat, the certainty of what she knows trembling on the tip of her tongue. "Yes, Harry."

"Where're you going? It's rather early, isn't it?" He is squinting at her in the dim light, propped on his elbows.

She cannot look him in the eyes, and her gaze drifts over his face, cataloguing its well-known features. "Er...Yes...well...The early bird and all that. I'm sure we can all learn a valuable lesson from him."

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You?"

"Yes, me," she says firmly. She doesn't like being reminded of her unfortunate habit of always being late.

"Alright, then," he acquiesces.

"Yes...Well..." she realizes she's said this already and hastens to add, "See about getting up, soon, please. I'd not like to come back and see your lazy arse still abed." She winces, internally, because she knows she sounds like her mother.

"Yes, Mum," he says, wryly.

She ignores him, retrieving her boot, instead. She straightens up, turns, and moves to Disapparate, when she trips over the same section of the rug she had tripped over before. She hears a distinct snicker coming from the direction of the bed, and she wishes mightily at that moment that she had the power of wandless magic at her fingertips. Were she to strike Harry with a hex, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would be unable to perform a _Prior Incantato _on her person and trace the signature back to her.

She gathers the tattered remains of her dignity and Apparates, changing her intended destination as she does so. She decides to forgo her much needed shower, for a while longer and lands in front of the foreboding presence of Grimmauld Place instead.

* * *

The characters are the inspiration of the inestimable J.K. Rowling. The story is mine.

Note: Tonks is twenty-six years old. Harry is nineteen.


	2. Winter Garment of Repentance

**Chapter Two**

**Winter Garment of Repentance**

I resolve daily that at dusk I shall repent

For a night with a cup full of wine spent.

In the presence of flowers, my resolve simply went

In such company, I only regret that I ever resolved to repent.

—_Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_

Tonks always feels as if time has moved apace without her. The years before, during and after the war were bitter and long, and she expects to one day blink and find herself ensconced in another century with people and objects unfamiliar to her. It is clear, though, as she stands on the well worn steps of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, that time has done little to change the landscape of the surrounding neighborhood.

There is the pungent smell of rotting garbage emanating from the pile of bulging bin-bags inside the broken grate, and there are the sagging houses, whose yards are decorated with heaps of rubbish, lining the street.

Everything is the same, and yet...not.

Tonks stares at the door in front of her. Its black paint is shabby and scratched. The silver door knocker, twisted in the form of a serpent seems to glare mockingly at her, and for a moment she is saddened by the miserable state and obvious decline of her ancestral home—the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; albeit she had never been welcomed in it when her relatives were alive.

Tonks thinks about the irony of a house, which quartered generations of a family that was vehemently against Muggle-Wizard relations of any sort, being used to front a campaign against a wizard who espoused those beliefs.

A grim smile tugs at her lips, as she pulls out her wand, and determinedly taps the door, once.

After a series of metallic clicks the door swings open, and for all that Mrs. Weasley is an ardent housekeeper, she is greeted by a damp, musty smell, as if the house had been locked up for some time.

She walks down the long Entrance Hall, past age-blackened portraits; as she does so, she hears the hissing of old-fashioned gas lamps sputtering into life in her wake. They cast a dim light on the peeling wallpaper and the gaping hole in the wall, on the right, where Mrs. Black's portrait once hung; Harry had blown it off in a spectacular fit of rage, displaying immense power.

The usual din of organized chaos assaults her ears as she walks further into the house, and Mrs. Weasley emerges from a door at the far end the hall with a smile on her face.

"Nymphadora, dear. How are you? You've been making yourself quite scarce around here lately." Tonks winces inwardly. She has reminded Mrs. Weasley, repeatedly, not to use her hated given name, but she has long since given it up as a lost cause.

She swallows her irritation, and answers, politely, "I'm well, thanks. I've had loads of paperwork to catch up on, so I've been a bit busy at the Ministry. How've you been getting on?"

Mrs. Weasley's hand flutters to her hair in an absent-minded fashion. "I'm quite well, thank you for asking." The woman opens her mouth to speak further, but she is interrupted by a deep voice coming from the front door where Tonks had just walked through.

They both look up. Bill Weasley, the oldest Weasley child, is striding down the hall with measured steps. His red hair, gathered behind him in a ponytail, is bouncing along the nape of his pale neck, and his fanged earring is glinting brightly in the dim light. He is smiling brightly, and one has to look very closely to see the faint smudges under his eyes and detect a slight limp in his step.

"Hello, Mum." He brushes a kiss on his mother's cheek and then turns to greet Tonks with an exuberant hug, which she returns in kind. He releases her. "Tonks! It's been a while, hasn't it? How've you been keeping?" He looks her over as though he is inspecting her for some grievous wound that has befallen her since they last met.

Tonks feels her mood lifting, and she returns his smile, warmly. The nature of their duties during the war effort had required regular and close contact between the two of them, and, because of their easygoing personalities, they had quickly struck up a friendship. They had remained good friends since.

"I've been all right, thanks, just busy with paperwork, as I was telling your Mum."

"It's the same at Gringotts. You can't make a move unless someone else knows about it."

Tonks laughs, ironically. "Yeah, gone are the days when we did as we pleased."

Bill shrugs, "Better this than before."

"True. Still, it's got to where I feel as though a report of every time I wipe my arse—begging you pardon, Mrs. Weasley—turns up on Head Chief Kshatriya's desk, somehow."

Bill laughs. "If it's on Ministry time, it probably does. Anyway, he's got to be an improvement on that arse-licker, Fudge."

"Bill!" Mrs. Weasley admonishes.

"Sorry, Mum."

Tonks snorts. "Anyone's an improvement after Fudge."

"Good point," Bill says.

"Well, I hate to cut our conversation short, but I'm really here to talk to Ron and Hermione," Tonks says. "Are they here?"

"Oh, yes, of course, dear. They're upstairs, in the library," says Mrs. Weasley.

Tonks leans over and gives the plump woman a quick hug. "Give my best to the others, will you."

"Certainly," says Mrs. Weasley.

Tonks looks at Bill. "I'll catch up with you, later, all right?"

Bill envelops her in a warm embrace. "Sounds good."

Mrs. Weasley observes Bill and Tonks for a moment, and abruptly says, "Bill, dear, why don't you invite Tonks to your little outing?"

"Outing?" says Tonks.

"Yes. Bill's going out with some friends, tomorrow."

"Mum," Bill says exasperatedly. "I'm going out with my girlfriend. Not friends or friend, girlfriend."

Tonks hurriedly speaks before Mrs. Weasley can. "It's all right. I've already made plans for tomorrow, anyway." She is keenly aware that Mrs. Weasley has been trying to match her up with her son, for some time, conveniently forgetting that Bill is in a happy relationship with Fleur Delacour, and has been for four years.

"Perhaps another time then," says Mrs. Weasley.

"Er...thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I'll certainly keep that in mind."

* * *

Tonks walks up the staircase and enters the drawing room, which functions as a library and an ad hoc room where strategy is discussed. Shelves, containing books on hexes and spells and curses of tactical warfare, line two walls, floor to ceiling. Stuck to the third wall, which faces the open doorway, are notes and maps and bits of scrolls with scribbled writing on them. 

On the far right wall, two large windows overlook the backyard, next to which is a large writing desk overflowing with books and scrolls, at which Ron and Hermione are sitting.

Tonks softly pulls the door shut behind her, which melts into the wall as if it had never been. Another shelf of books glides down the wall.

"Ron, Hermione," she greets, walking over to them.

Hermione looks up, distractedly, while Ron smiles warmly at her. "Hullo, Tonks. I haven't seen you for a while."

"Yeah, I know. That seems to be the refrain for the day. What're you two up to?" she asks, with a strained smile. She is reluctant to state her order of business.

Ron points his chin at Hermione. "Ask her. Frankly, I'd thought we'd dispensed with this nonsense once we left school. It feels as I've never left Hogwarts."

"It is _not_ nonsense. We're conducting important research for the Order, and we'd get through it more quickly if you'd sit still and focus," Hermione admonishes.

"Yeah, well, I could be putting my time to better use than chasing after dull bits of paper."

"Chasing after skirts, more like," Hermione says scornfully.

Tonks interjects before an argument can fully develop between the two. "Listen...can you spare some time? I really need to talk to you."

* * *

Harry wakes up for the second time that morning, and he lies quietly under the warm covers, listening to the rustling trees outside. 

He savors the warm quiet for a moment longer before he throws the covers back and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a soft moan. A throbbing pain, beating in time to his heart, takes up residence in the back of his head, reminding him of his overindulgence the night before.

As he gets up, he is aware of a general ache in his body, and he promises to swear off drinking for the foreseeable future.

He pads sleepily out of the bedroom and into Tonks's tiny bathroom. He climbs into the tub, luxuriating under the warm spray of water gurgling out from the shower-head above him. He lathers his body with a handful of soap crafted from hand-made goat's milk, speckled with linen seeds—for purposes of exfoliation—and lightly fragranced with a hint of almond oil. Harry doesn't like to think that he has this bit of information floating around in his head, and thinks, instead, that for all of Tonks's unconventional sensibilities, she really is quite refined in her tastes.

He shuts the water off with a sharp twist of the taps, and climbs out, dripping and clean, onto the bathroom mat. He reaches for a towel in the cupboard and rubs it briskly down his body before wrapping it around his waist.

He pads back into the bedroom, and pulls on a set of clean clothes—loose jeans and a T-shirt.

And just as he promises to swear off drinking, he promises not to visit Tonks just to fuck as he did last night.

It's true they have a mutual arrangement, but he can't help feeling, as he always does, that he's using her somehow; emptying himself into her body as he does faceless others, to take the edge off of an urgent desperation that's been building in him for months. He knows, with certain despair, that the feeling will return, more insistent than before.

Harry shakes his head, not wanting to think any of these thoughts, and he abruptly Apparates to the dead-end alley behind The Leakey Cauldron pub.

He enters the pub, and exits just as quickly pretending he doesn't hear his named being spoken in conversation.

Harry taps the bricks, in sequence, on the back wall and he is immediately assaulted by the many sights and sounds of Diagon Alley. Funny little witches up from the country for a day's shopping, wild-looking warlocks, and raucous dwarves rush by in an eddying flow down the busy streets. A hag stands in front of the cauldron shop eating what looks to be raw liver, and wizards, dining at an outdoor eatery, snap newspapers importantly in front of them.

Harry sees none of this. As he goes by, conversations stop, and start again behind him. The sound is like the muffled jabber of parakeets. A few people hail him, but he ignores them, lengthening his stride. His expression is closed off and none dare approach him.

He walks past Flourish and Blotts, Gringotts's Wizarding Bank, and Gambol & Japes, and he doesn't stop until he's in front of a distinct looking storefront. Over the door is a navy blue awning inscribed with a bright, orange stylized 'W' overlaid by a numerical '3.'

What had been a junk shop across from Ollivander's wand shop is now the proud home of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes of whom Fred and George Weasley were the proud owners.

The door jangles as he opens it and George looks up at him and extricates himself from a cluster of excited youngsters to come and greet him.

"Looks like you had a bit of excitement last night," George says grinningly.

Harry raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"That bit 'o fluff you were cozying up with looked a mite eager." George says, giving Harry a brief but thorough once-over. "And you do look a bit rough."

"Well, I didn't," Harry says shortly.

George raises his hands defensively. "Just calling it like I see it, mate. Don't get shirty."

Harry shrugs. "Sorry."

"'S'all right," George says, rubbing his neck. "I've been going through a bit of a dry spell myself."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Harry says with a smirk.

"Oh, that's right, you tosser. Rub it in my face. Anyway there're some pastries over there in that basket," George says pointing to a table off a back wall. "And there's a new shipment in the back that needs sorting out."

Harry, followed by George, walks over to the table, and examines the pastries, carefully, before selecting one. "You expect me to believe I'll not turn into some molting bird if I eat this," he says.

"Would that be anyway for me treat a valued employee?" George laughs at the look on Harry's face. "It's not been tampered with. I promise you."

Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow, but shrugs and bites into the fluffy treat, anyway. Strawberry jam fills his mouth, and for several moments, nothing happens.

"I'm sorry I doubted you—" The words barely leave Harry mouth before a loud pop! reaches his ears and he turns into a squawking chicken.

This, of course, captures the attention of the browsing customers, and loud, screaming laughter fills the store.

Before long, there is a clamoring rush for the pastries. The sounds of an indignant chicken squawking are loud in the background.

Not long after, Harry is restored to his body and he gets to work cataloguing merchandise. He soon falls into a rhythm and the heavy monotony of his work soothes him; he has nothing to think on but his tasks, which prevent his mind from slipping into the well-grooved rut of past mistakes and failures.

* * *

_Three Years and Eleven Months Ago _

When Harry and his friends stepped off the Hogwarts Express on their arrival at Hogsmeade Station for the beginning of their sixth year at school, they were immediately greeted by the brisk Scottish night air, which was unusually cold and sharp for early September.

Everyone hastily pulled their cloaks securely around their bodies, and while Ron and Hermione attended to their Prefect duties, Luna, Neville and Harry set about finding the nearest unoccupied stagecoach to deposit their belongings in.

Harry was jostled by the hundreds of moving bodies, and he briefly lost sight of Neville and Luna, but they quickly reemerged from the crowd and they soon found a coach and secured their luggage in it.

They were joined shortly by Ron and Hermione. Ginny smiled at them as she walked past them with Dean Thomas, his arm around her shoulder, and a few of her fifth-year friends.

Ron's face tightened and he muttered dark things about Dean under his breath. Silence reigned, until Ron perked up and nudged Harry, saying as if he'd been continuing a conversation from before, "What'd you think, mate? I know she's kind of fickle, but she's my sister. It'd be worth a shot."

Harry, who'd been determinedly trying not to take notice of the frightening specter of the thestrals, asked distractedly, "Worth a shot?"

Ron rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. "Yeah, you know...to ask Ginny out. Come on, mate. Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

"Yeah, especially with the not-so-subtle hints you've been dropping about it, the past few weeks," Harry said wryly.

"It's the perfect the setup. Mum and Dad love you—you know they do, our whole family does. That's not counting Percy, of course, but he's a git, anyway," said Ron, warming to his topic. "And you're much better boyfriend material than any of those other blokes, especially that Corner fellow." Ron said the last with scorn in his voice. "C'mon. What's to think about?"

"Well, when you put it like _that_..." Harry said.

"You know, _Ronald_," Hermione said, stressing his whole name, knowing how much he hated it. "Ginny might not appreciate your attempts at matchmaking on her behalf."

"Oh, I don't know," Luna said in dreamy fashion. "I think it's quite old-fashioned and courtly. Ronald is protecting his sister's virtue."

Ron sputtered, turning bright red.

"Yes, well, I think it's antiquated and demeaning," Hermione said waspishly. "Ginny is fifteen-years old and fully capable of choosing her own boyfriends. She doesn't need you sticking your nose in where it's not wanted."

Ron got over his embarrassment, though his face was still red. "I'm a bloke, Hermione. I know the kind of urges blokes get. And I don't like the idea of them getting any of those urges around my baby sister," Ron said vehemently.

"Well! Really..." Hermione said, clearly at a loss for words.

"Harry's a bloke, too, Ron. Are you saying that Harry doesn't get any of the urges blokes get?" Neville asked incredulously. Then he blushed and stammered. "I—I mean...uh..."

"Neville!" Harry cried out.

"Ha!" Hermione exclaimed, although she wasn't exactly sure what she was exclaiming about.

"Well. I—uh..." Ron had clearly never thought of his friend in that light, before.

And their conversation continued in that fashion as the coaches began rolling in convoy to Hogwarts Castle, until they passed between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gate to the school grounds, all of them contemplating what lay in store for them in the coming year.

The carriages were pulled to a jingled halt near the base of the stone steps leading to the oak front doors. They emerged from the musty interior of the coach, and they paused to look at the gleaming turrets of the castle, which seemed to be leaning against the pitch black sky, before they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps.

Harry hadn't noticed they'd passed through the brightly lit entrance hall and entered the Great Hall, until he was startled out the reverie he'd fallen into by a loud exclamation from Ron.

"Hey, what's Tonks doing here?"

Harry's head snapped up. "What! Where?" he asked, swinging his head about, wildly.

"There," Ron pointed, "sitting at the staff table."

"Ron, don't point," Hermione said, exasperatedly. "It's horribly rude."

The chatter of the other students and his friends' bickering faded into the background as a loud ringing noise filled his ears. His heart began thudding loudly against his ribs and he thought, for a moment, he was going to faint, as he stared, horrified, at the High Table.

Tonks sat ensconced in an earthen-colored, high-back chair between Professor Binns, the History of Magic instructor, and a sour-faced Snape. She was smiling and waving excitedly at them.

Her bright pink robes set to match her spiked hair, was a sharp contrast to the more sober robes worn by the more traditional teaching staff.

Harry didn't have time to observe more as he was swept along with the tide of students hurrying to their seats.

His friends didn't notice his distracted air as they were busily catching up on their summer holidays, and a hush soon fell over the school as the first year students were led into the Hall.

After the new students were sorted into their respective houses, Dumbledore made his usual welcoming remarks and opened up the feast.

Everyone tucked in heartily, while Harry kept sneaking glances at the Head Table. When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the hall had started to creep upward again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more.

"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices," said Dumbledore. "First years ought to know that the Forbidden Forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes, nor are a number of things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door.

"Finally, we have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Trelawney, who will be returning to her Divination post; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Tonks, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

A small cheer went up at the Gryffindor table, while everyone else applauded politely. Harry's reaction was notably restrained.

Tonks smiled broadly and raised her hand to wave at the students. As she lowered her arm, her sleeve caught the rim of Snape's goblet, and it teetered precariously on the edge of the table before it fell, splashing its contents into his lap.

Snape's face took on a tight expression as a hush fell over the Great Hall into which Tonks's voice, murmuring profuse apologies, was heard quite audibly. She fumbled for her wand and pointed it at his lap, to which there was heard a swift inhalation of breath from every male person in the hall.

Snape clamped his hand around her arm, and said, "I'll thank you not to perform any magic on my person, Professor Tonks." Assured that his manhood wasn't in immediate danger, he released her arm, saying, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Snape rose stiffly from his chair, shooting Tonks a dark look, and swept from the room with a swirl of his cloak behind him.

Ron snorted, saying under the sudden flurry of noise, "He always looks like a giant bat when he does that. A giant, greasy bat."

* * *

Hogwarts students soon settled into the routine of going to classes. They reacquainted themselves with the routine of studying and mingling and partaking in recreational sports and activities. Most of the students took their respite outdoors, taking advantage of the pleasant, albeit brisk, weather; black dots against the landscape of Hogwarts Castle grounds in their black school robes. 

And if Harry seemed a bit subdued, no one spoke about it. He brushed off concerned queries about his welfare from his friends, and they let him be, assuming, of course, that he was still grieving for Sirius.

Which he was.

Regarding Tonks, he saw little of her except in the classroom. She was a good teacher—the best they'd had since Remus Lupin. She was always cheerful, praised her students accordingly, and in the matter of House points, she gave them out fairly.

To Harry she was unfailingly polite, but she rarely called on him, and she seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

One day, after a meeting with the Headmaster, Harry encountered Tonks a few corridors away from Dumbledore's office. She seemed intent to speak to him.

"Harry," she called out.

He stopped to let her catch up, not bothering with a reply. "Harry," she said, breathlessly, coming within a few feet of him. She looked closely at his face.

"Are you all right?" she asks concernedly.

"What do you care?"

"Harry, I do care. Far more than I should."

"Yeah?" Harry said glaring down at her, grateful for the few inches of height that he had on her. "Why've you been avoiding me then?"

Tonks was at a loss for a reply.

"Didn't think I noticed, did you? What'd you think? That I was some stupid kid? That you could just shag me and leave, without so much as a by your leave, and not even give me the courtesy of _warning_ me that you'd be coming to Hogwarts? Huh?" Harry's voice cracked at the last bit, and he was breathing heavily by the time he finished his tirade, his hands clenched at his sides. His whole body was tautly strung, quivering with unspent emotion, and he blinked rapidly against the tears filling his eyes.

"Harry," Tonks entreated. She gently touched his arm, but he flung her hand off, violently. "Harry, please," she said, curling her fingers into her hand. "Don't be this way. Just listen to me."

"Why the fuck should I?"

"Harry—"

"In fact," he said, cutting her off, viciously, "who's to stop me from going to Dumbledore, right now, and telling him about the whole sordid affair? I'm sure the school governors and your employers at the DMLE would love a good listen."

"Harry," Tonks tried again. "Dumbledore _does_ know."

"What?" Harry breathed. His features were frozen in a startled expression.

"I'm not sure how he found out, but the fact remains...that he did." Tonks cleared her throat. She was only marginally calmer than he was, and she was not a woman normally given to hysterical impulses. "I was in a rather untenable position. Here I was...a grown woman and a fully trained Auror. I was at a loss to explain how I'd come to have a fling with an adolescent boy...the Savior-of-the-Bloody-Wizarding-World, no less."

Harry laughed bitterly. "Well, there, that makes it better, then. Doesn't it?"

"Harry, please believe that I never set out to hurt you."

"Well, you needn't worry on that front. I have no feelings to speak of. Didn't you hear?"

"Harry, don't be this way."

"What way? Upset? Furious? _Enraged_, that once again Dumbledore holds sway over the dictates of my life? That once again I've got no say? Hmm? What way _are_ you talking about, Tonks?"

"Harry—"

"You know, I didn't think we swore undying love to each other, but you _ought _to have had the decency to break it off properly instead of—" Harry cut himself off, shaking his head. The look on his face grew ugly. "You know, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. The lot of you deserve each other. You and Dumbledore can both go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure he makes a far better fuck than I do."

Tonks drew in a sharp breath at Harry's cruelty. She felt the first stirrings of anger kindling within her. "Harry, you're mistaken if you think I've whored myself out to Dumbledore in some way."

"Yeah? Then explain to me how you got the DADA professorship when I _know_ for a fact the position wasn't even filled two weeks before school started."

"Harry...I—" Tonks was at a loss for words.

"I thought as much," Harry said sounding weary beyond measure. The fight seemed to have drained out of him. "Look, just tell me what this is about."

"I—" Tonks seemed reluctant to speak.

"Spit it out. You're free to carry on ignoring me when you're done here."

"That's just the thing," Tonks said looking at Harry with troubled eyes. "Dumbledore didn't just hire me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He hired me to train you. Secretly…"

* * *

Tonks is in the library with Ron and Hermione. 

Hermione, predictably, is the first to break the silence.

"Are you sure?" she asks, looking at Tonks intently.

"I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't," Tonks replies.

"But—but..." Ron stammers. "Harry wouldn't...I mean...it can't be. Harry's the strongest bloke I know. He'd never...no. I don't believe you."

"Ron—"

"Don't 'Ron' me, Hermione." Ron looks at Tonks. "No offense, Tonks. I think the world of you. You know I do, but Harry...how can you say...? No." He shakes his head. "No. I would know. Harry's my best friend, my brother. I would know. I would. That's all there is to it."

"That's the point, Ron. Friends and family are often the last to know," says Hermione.

"Ron. I saw the marks on his arm," Tonks says quietly.

"And since when did you two start sleeping together again? Explain that to me."

"Ron, that's none of your business," Hermione scolds, "and entirely beside the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is," Hermione begins with exaggerated patience. She stops. She glances at Tonks, and then looks at Ron. "The point is," she says quietly, "Harry needs help."

Ron rises from his chair, and walks to the window overlooking the backyard. He swings his arm agitatedly. He blinks rapidly, pressing his lips together. He takes a deep breath, and looks at Tonks. "Really?" he asks, quietly.

She understands his question. "Really." She pauses. "I'm sorry."

Later that evening, Harry finishes up his work. When Fred and George ask him if he'll be joining them at the pub for drinks, he begs off, stating a need for rest.

He retraces his steps back to the Leaky Cauldron, and once in the alley, he Apparates back to his flat. He walks through the dimly lit living room and into his bedroom. He crouches down to the floor, and shimmies under the bed.

Guided by the light of his wand, he taps a sequence of coded numbers onto the floor, loosening the floorboard. He pries one of the boards apart, and reaches into the dark well.

Flushed now with anticipation, he emerges with his tools; a vial, a syringe and a rubber strap.

Sometime later, after a shower, and a change of clothes, Harry leaves his flat and Apparates to a Muggle club, becoming lost in the pulsing throb of people.

* * *

Thanks to** abigail89**, my beta, for her assistance and understanding. Any and all mistakes are mine. 

**Definitions**:

**Kshatriya **– The second-highest rank in the Indian caste system, meaning warrior.

**DMLE** - Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which employs Hit Wizards and Aurors.

**References**:

The title of the chapter is from the _Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam_.

I used some of the physical description for Grimmauld's Place and Hogwarts Castle, from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_, verbatim.

The sound is like the muffled jabber of parakeets—_The Stranger_ by Albert Camus.

The resources of the **Harry Potter Lexicon**, and **effingpot** (because I don't speak British) were invaluable to me.

* * *

See chapter one for disclaimer. 


	3. The Ribbed Original of Love

**Chapter Three**

**The Ribbed Original of Love**

In the beginning was the word, the word

That from the solid bases of the light

Abstracted all the letters of the void;

And from the cloudy bases of the breath

The word flowed up, translating to the heart

First characters of birth and death.

—_Dylan Thomas_

Hermione knocks on the door. Her hand is steady, but her heart beats with faltering trepidation.

She waits a small eternity before she hears movement on the other side, and finally, the door swings open revealing her friend's disheveled form.

It is obvious she has woken him from slumber; his face is creased and unshaven, his hair is untidy—more so than usual, and he is clad only in what appears to be a hastily pulled on pair of ragged pajama pants, riding low on his hips.

His face is painted with surprise. "Hermione, what're you doing, here?" he asks in a sleep-husky voice.

She smiles and feigning nonchalance, shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood. I thought I'd drop in for a visit."

He looks confused. "It's rather early for visiting, isn't it?"

"Harry, it's one o'clock in the afternoon," she says shooting him a reproachful look.

"Oh," he says, looking faintly sheepish.

"Now, are you going to invite me in, or do you fancy having afternoon tea on your doorstep?"

An uncomfortable look flits across his face. "Ah…well…you see." Seeing the resolute look about her he quickly capitulates. "Sure…of course. Come in," he says, resignedly, and moves back, allowing her room to enter.

She walks past him, briskly. She surveys the living room, raising her eyebrows. "You've cleaned," she observes. The space is spotless, free of its usual bachelor-accumulated detritus.

"I had to, some time or another," he says, appearing vaguely ill at ease. He shrugs, appearing to dismiss the matter, and then gestures toward the kitchen with a brief dip of his head. "Something to drink?"

"If it's no bother."

A small smile curls the corner of his lips. "You're never a bother to me, Hermione," he says cheekily.

She moves with him to the kitchen, helping herself to a glass of water as he starts rummaging in the cupboards.

"Omelet?" he asks.

"Sure."

She busies herself toasting and buttering the bread, while he simmers some onions and tomatoes in a frying pan, and beats some eggs in a bowl.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get burnt?" she asks, with a nod at his shirtless state.

He shrugs, glancing down at his naked chest. "I think I can take it."

She rolls her eyes. "Men! Cooking over a hot stove with no shirt on. Honestly. Such conceit," she says, disparagingly.

"Why, Hermione, are my man nipples making you…uncomfortable?" he asks, leering mockingly at her.

Hermione snorts. "Hardly. Violently ill, more like."

"Are you sure it's not unrequited lust you're feeling?" Harry asks, grinning at her.

"Sod off," she says, trying to quell a mounting blush. Though Hermione has admitted to herself, in her darkest, deepest, most private thoughts, that Harry has grown up to be quite the looker, she'd rather cut out her tongue than reveal her thoughts on the matter to anyone. Ever.

Harry makes a rude noise, which Hermione ignores.

The pair continue their bantering, and in short order, they have a late breakfast assembled.

They pass the time savoring their meal—eggs, toast, and steaming hot tea. Whilst talking about inconsequential things, Hermione studies her friend, seeing, despite his apparent best efforts, lines of strain around his mouth and faintly bloodshot eyes. She surreptitiously inspects his bare arms but sees no puncture marks or bruises on them.

Hermione is usually unskilled at deception, but apparently her attempt at light-hearted banter is credible because she seems not to have raised his suspicions. He appears relaxed, almost, in her presence.

Visiting Harry, a day after Tonks's revelation, is an impulsive act—one she feels direly unprepared for—carried through because of an urgent need to assess him; to see, with her own eyes that he is well, unharmed by his own folly.

Harry directs a question at her, pulling her from her grim musings and she rejoins the conversation, deciding to put aside her worries, for a short while.

Their conversation is halted mid-laugh when the creaking sound of Harry's bedroom door opening reaches their ears. A light tapping of bare feet on wooden floors moves down the hall, approaching them, until a young woman, clad in a short camisole and low-slung knickers, appears in the kitchen's entryway.

"Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you'd got to," she says, to Harry, looking not at all self-conscious.

Hermione blinks at the girl, surprise clearly written on her face. "Oh," she says. "I-hello."

Harry has the grace to blush. "Uh—Hermione, this is…uh…um…"

"Nola," says the girl, saving him. She smiles briefly at Hermione, and then turns to look at Harry. "I was wondering if I could use the toilet before I go."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. It's down the corridor. Second door on your right," he says, pointing.

"Thanks."

The girl leaves, and silence falls, broken only by the sound of a door opening and then thudding shut.

Hermione finds her voice. "Harry," she hisses, "who is that girl?"

Harry scratches the back of his neck—a nervous habit—shrugs and says, "Someone I met."

"When did you meet her?" Hermione demands.

There is a pause before Harry answers, embarrassedly. "Last night."

"My God, Harry, the girl's a tart," Hermione exclaimed. "And for that matter, so are you!"

"What?" Harry says looking indignant. "Men can't be tarts. She's…just someone with whom…I've had a…limited acquaintance."

"It can't be that limited if you've already taken her to bed. You don't even know her name."

"I did. I do. I'd forgotten it, that's all." He shrugs, lamely. "A few pints will do that to you," he explains.

"What about Tonks?" Hermione hisses.

"What about her?" Harry says with deliberate obtuseness.

"Does she know about…?" Hermione asks waving her hand behind the absent Nola.

"We have an arrangement that suits us perfectly," Harry says, defensively.

"Perfect maybe," Hermione argues, full of doubtful skepticism, "but for whom? She doesn't deserve such inconsiderate treatment. Least of all from you, Harry."

"Tonks knows exactly what I'm about," Harry cuts in angrily. "Her eyes are _wide_ open in that regard. No need to defend her from me." He rises to his feet, moving about in an agitated fashion.

Hermione knows she's crossed a line. Tonks is a taboo subject as far as Harry is concerned. But Hermione has always gone where angels feared to tread. She opens her mouth to speak, again, but promptly closes it shut when Nola—dressed this time, albeit scantily—saunters into the kitchen.

"Could I have a glass of water before I go?" asks Nola of Harry.

Harry stares at her for a beat, and then blinks as though coming out of a trance. "I—yeah…sure."

He fills a glass with water, and hands it to her.

She sips the water daintily, surveying Harry's apartment through the open kitchen. "Nice place you've got here," she says, appreciatively. "You must've paid through the nose for it."

"Er…thanks," Harry says.

She drains her glass. "Thanks…Hal, was it?" she says, returning the glass to Harry.

"Harry."

"Harry, then," she amends. She gives him a slow, speculative smile. "Give me a ring, sometime, will you?" She reaches out, squeezing his arm, warmly. "You've got great moves, not like _some_ blokes I know who wouldn't know what to do with the bits dangling between their legs if you paid them."

He flicks a glance at Hermione, but he can't stop the amused smile from tugging at his lips. "I'm glad you think so."

She looks at Hermione. "It was nice meeting you, love."

"I'm sure it was," says Hermione in a derisive tone.

Nola seems unaffected. Hermione feels like doing something violent to the girl.

"Let me show you out," Harry says, and moves to escort the girl to the door.

Hermione remains seated and hears them exchange a few words in low tones, silence, and then the closing of the door.

Harry comes back into the kitchen with a lit cigarette in hand.

"Harry," she starts off exasperatedly, but doesn't continue. He's heard her anti-smoking spiel before.

"Oh, why do I even bother speaking? You and Ron never listen to me."

Harry exhales a thin stream of smoke through pursed lips. "Come, now, love. I wouldn't say that," he says, smiling charmingly at her.

"Oh?" Hermione questions. "Well, I've seen small evidence of that," she says, getting up to leave.

"You don't have to leave on my behalf," Harry says, getting up with her.

"I'm not," she says. "I have some small errands to run. I just wanted to stop in and see how you were doing."

"And now you can rest easy," Harry says, not unkindly, making a face at her.

She pauses at the door, and looks into his eyes, searchingly. "Harry, you know I love you, right?"

Harry looks surprised. "Of course, Hermione. I love you, too."

She reaches over to him, and he envelops her in a warm hug, careful not to touch her with his smoldering cigarette.

She presses her face to his warm chest, savoring the muffled sound of his beating heart.

She releases him, "All right, then," she says sniffing exaggeratedly. "Go take a bath. You stink."

After making a rude gesture at her, Harry closes the door, and Hermione leans back against the wall, her breath leaving her body, tremulously.

How, she wondered, had it come to this?

* * *

_Three Years, Ten Months Ago_

Harry was lying atop his bed, staring, unseeing, at the wall, when his dull musings were interrupted by the distant sounds of the doorbell chiming to life.

Harry roused, briefly, from a heavy stupor to wonder at the identity of the person at the door, before he quickly lost interest.

A short time passed—unnoticed by Harry—before a sharp knock sounded on his bedroom door. Startled, he lurched abruptly from his curled position, stretching his body and tight muscles before planting his feet on the floor. "Come in," he called out, wearily.

The door opened, and there, standing framed in the entrance of his bedroom door was a strange young woman—that is, until she opened her mouth. "Wotcher, Harry!"

"Tonks," Harry said, standing to greet her. A small smile curled the corner of his lips. "What're you doing here? It's not been three days, has it?" He'd been diligent about that, if not much else, at least.

"No. I come bearing gifts," she said, jovially. "And birthday greetings from your friends."

"Oh!" Harry said, surprised. He hadn't realized it was his birthday.

Tonks took his silence as an invitation and entered the room more fully. She emptied, onto Harry's bed, a brown, leather rucksack of its weighty contents. "These are from Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the twins—I'd be careful of those if I were you. Cakes from Mrs. Weasley, and—here it is—this is from me," Tonks, said, finishing her monologue, and extended a gaily wrapped parcel to Harry.

Harry blinked, still standing in frozen surprise, until his limbs became unstuck and he moved to accept the gift, all the while blushing and stammering. "I…oh…well, thank you."

"You're welcome," Tonks said, simply, smiling at him.

"Can you stay a while longer?" he asked, shyly. He was suddenly eager for company.

"Not today, I'm afraid. This is a drop and run," she replied, indicating the packages on the bed. "Another time, perhaps?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, resignedly. It was clear he didn't expect there to _be_ another time.

Then, Tonks did something really strange: she shifted closer to him, and pressed a kiss, softly, on his forehead; right over the famous scar on his head. She drew back, eyeing him, critically. She did not like what she saw. Weariness drew lines on the planes of his face, and his recent growth did not hang well on his frame.

Harry began fidgeting under the scrutiny of her gaze, picking at the edges of the outer wrapping of the gift still clutched in his hands.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Tonks said. She smiled disarmingly at him for a short moment, and then Disapparated with a loud crack.

A week passed before Tonksturned up again.

* * *

They sat on singed grass in the backyard under the shade of a leafy poplar tree and ate curry tandoori chicken out of white take-away containers.

"You've not been corresponding with your friends," Tonks stated. It was not a question.

Harry shrugged, only mildly perturbed by her _non sequitur_. They'd previously been discussing the merits of Wizarding versus Muggle music. Tonks was a music aficionado, andshe was aghast at the state of Harry's knowledge—or decided lack, thereof.

"You ought not to waste their friendship," she said mildly. "They are the truest you will ever find."

They sat in a small silence, before Tonks spoke, again. "Your aunt is looking at us quite strangely."

Harry looked up. It was true. Aunt Petunia was looking at them intently from behind the kitchen curtains. She hurriedly twitched them shut when she realized she had caught their attention.

Harry shrugged again, used to his family's eccentricities. "She's probably afraid of what the neighbors will say."

"I see," Tonks said, after which she changed the topic, and they began speaking about other things.

* * *

Two days later, Tonks dropped in for a visit. It was raining outside, so they sat on Harry's bedroom floor, partaking of a small feast. Tonks introduced the different dishes sitting in the white Styrofoam: _gai sate_, grilled marinated chicken with a peanut dipping sauce; and _po taak_, a soup made from prawns, salmon, and calamari in a chili, lime, and lemongrass broth.

"I should see about taking up another language, then," Harry joked.

"What d'you mean?" Tonks replied, puzzled.

Harry gestured at the food. "It's just…I've never eaten food like this before…I can hardly pronounce their names…it's very good, though," he hastened to assure her, worried that he might have offended her somehow.

"Not at all," Tonks replied in a faux snooty voice, "I'm merely trying to expand your culinary palate, Harry. British food is _so_ common. Nothing at all exotic about its flavors."

After they finished their repast, they indulged in a game of exploding snap, with a hastily erected silencing charm thrown over the room, by Tonks after having been chastened by Aunt Petunia's strident "Boy!" being shouted up the stairs.

Punk music poured out from the wireless Tonks had given him for his birthday in gritty, discordant tones, and rain lashed the windows and the plants and the trees outside.

* * *

Harry can't pinpoint when he and Tonks began engaging in carnal relations.

That's not to say he doesn't recall the surprise he felt when she first pressed against him, her lips touching his; the wonder he felt when he beheld her naked body for the first time or the terrible awkwardness he felt when he slid his cock into her warm channel.

It's just from that point onward the summer seemed to take on a surreal glow. The exact mechanics of his days became lost in a miasma of heat and lust.

Was it the day his aunt soundly berated him for dropping a whole roast on the floor? Was it the day Tonks appeared in his bedroom, grimly agitated about goings-on at the Ministry? Or was it the day Mundungus Fletcher arrived on his family's doorstep, remarkably tipsy and clutching a packet letters from his friends?

Harry was unable to come up with an adequate reply.

At first, the sex was not very good, which left Tonks yearning to shape and mold his desires and Harry straining to fulfill this strange, elusive need.

And it was a large need. They fucked on Harry's bed, on the floor, against the door, and one day when the Dursleys were out of the house, they fucked in the bath against the cool tiles, albeit without much coordination or skill.

Harry was a quick study.

They transferred that need to Grimmauld Place when Harry was transported to Headquarters at summer's end, rubbing slickly and frantically together, alternately trying to kindle and put out a fire.

And so it continued the remaining weeks of the summer until Harry left for school, them fucking with wild abandon. Harry having found an outlet for his grief, and Tonks, a young lover she could tame.

* * *

Tonks lands wearily on her parents' doorstep. She had just spent an arduously long and strained afternoon with Ron and Hermione discussing various ways of addressing Harry's problem.

They'd gone round and round in circles, neither Ron nor Hermione coming to an agreement and Tonks vacillating between the two.

They'd finally agreed that they needed to seek the help of a professional healer. Of course, that had given rise to the unaddressed problem of finding one who'd be trustworthy and discreet. It wouldn't do for word of The-Boy-Who-Lived's peccadillo to hit the streets.

Tonks sighs, feeling weary beyond measure.

She opens the door with a wave of her wand and a muttered incantation.

"Mum, Dad," she calls into the silent house. Odd, she thought. They must have gone out.

Then she hears a thump, and then a scurrying sound, followed by the scampering of tiny feet running across the bare floor.

A small dark-haired little boy—no more than two years old—runs, full-tilt, down the hall, a tall, regal-looking woman walking sedately behind him. "Mummy, Mummy!" he cries.

"Emmy!" she cries in return.

Tonks bends down, her face splitting in a beaming smile, and scoops him into her arms. She plants kisses, furiously, over his small face. The boy in her arms squeals with tickled delight.

"Oh, my Emmy, I've missed you so much," Tonks murmurs into his soft neck.

"Me too, Mummy," he says, his tiny arms encircling her neck. He leans back to look at her. His large, green eyes sparkle brightly at her from underneath his tumbled mop of hair. "I misthed you!"

* * *

**Note:** On a point of clarification, it is presently June 2000, wherein Harry is 19 and Tonks is 26. In the past, it is July/August 1996, wherein Harry is 16 and Tonks is 23.

Thanks to my beta, **abigail**, for her help in correcting my mistakes, especially my overzealous use of commas, and for pointing out that there needed to _be_ a point of clarification.

Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter. I apologize for the long wait. My muse took an extended vacation. There are literally four different versions of chapter three currently sitting on the cutting room floor. None of them floated my boat.

Oh, and no offense is meant by the line about British food being common.

The poem by Dylan Thomas is called _In the Beginning_.

* * *

See chapter one for disclaimer. 


	4. Prayer for the Beloved in Your Heart

Chapter Four of Crack has been updated. It's NC-17 so it has been posted to my livejournal, which can be found in my user profile. Also, replies to any questions or comments posed by readers can be found there, now and in the future.

The link to the story is at the top of the page, and for anyone unfamiliar with livejournal, you don't have to be a member to read or post comments. Anonymous feedback is accepted.

Thanks for all of your wonderful reviews. They give me a reason to keep writing this story and they are very much appreciated.

SolarisDay


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